Thief River Falls Run

Chapter One

The buckskin-clad gunman crouched and spun, his hands dropping to his pearl-handled revolvers, one in a leather holster on each hip, his long blond locks waving in the wind, his keen blue eyes scanning the field below him, searching for the source of the noise he had just heard.

Someone had coughed.

A full moon illuminated the field, kept cleared of all brush, trees, and other vegetation to prevent any foes, human or otherwise, from covertly assaulting the thirty-acre plot called the Home by those who lived within the encircling brick walls. The Family, as they designated themselves, took extraordinary precautions to insure its safety: the twenty-foot-high walls were topped with barbed wire and a rampart for patrolling purposes, a wide moat was channeled around the base of the wall, within the compound; and the entire Home was continually guarded by an elite corps of skilled, thoroughly trained fighters known as Warriors.

“Hickok, did you hear that?” whispered a small, wiry man as he scurried along the rampart in the gunman’s direction.

“Sure did, pard,” acknowledged Hickok, nodding.

The second man stopped at Hickok’s side. “Came from the edge of the field,” he stated. His brown eyes studied the forest, dimly visible as a looming dark mass, one hundred and fifty yards distant. “Near the trees.

We were fortunate the wind carried the sound this far. Any orders?”

Hickok mentally pondered the situation. Should they investigate the cough now, or leave it until daylight? What would Blade do at a time like this?

The Warriors were divided into four sections, or Triads, comprised of three members each. Designated the Alpha, Beta, Gamma, and Omega Triads, they were entrusted with the defense of the Home and the protection of the Family. While each Triad had an appointed head, all of the Warriors were under the leadership of the Alpha Triad, and each of the twelve Warriors was specifically responsible to Blade, the chief of Alpha Triad and the commander of all Family Warriors.

Blast! Hickok thoughtfully stroked his blond mustache, debating on a course of action. Blade was recuperating from an infection his body had developed, a reaction to the dozens of cuts and slashes inflicted by a deadly wolverine during their battle with the Trolls. He was probably asleep at this late hour, dreaming of his beloved Jenny. Lucky him!

“Should we alert Geronimo?” the other man asked, running his right hand through his black hair, relieved as the breeze picked up, cooling his sweaty brow. The July night was warm and muggy. “Nope,” Hickok laconically responded. “Would take too long, Rikki. Geronimo is way over on the east wall.”

The Alpha Triad consisted of Blade, Geronimo, and Hickok. With Blade recovering from the infection, another Warrior had volunteered to take his place on guard duty. Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, the Beta Triad leader, clutched a long black scabbard in his left hand. He pointed it at the distant woods.

“I’ll go myself, if you like.”

“I’m going,” Hickok announced, making his decision. “Alone.”

“I should go along.” Rikki-Tikki-Tavi offered.

“I’m going alone,” Hickok repeated, carefully moving along the rampart until he was in the center of the western wall, directly above a closed drawbridge.

Rikki followed on his heels. “Could be a trap,” he said, voicing his concern. “Could be some more scavengers,” he noted, referring to an attack by a roving band of marauders several years before, an assault the Family successfully repelled.

“Could be,” Hickok agreed, glancing down. Imbedded in the concrete at his moccasined feet was a thick steel ring. Attached to the ring, coiled in a large pile on the rampart, was a stout rope.

“You’ll need a backup,” Rikki contended.

“No, thanks,” Hickok declined. He lifted the rope. At this one point, the barbed wire was deliberately spaced to permit one person to pass over the edge of the rampart.

“You don’t know who or what is out there,” Rikki stated, his tone reflecting his annoyance.

“Doesn’t matter,” Hickok informed him.

“It’s against standard Warrior procedure,” Rikki added.

Hickok shrugged, peered over the top of the wall, and tossed the rope down the wall.

“You’re taking a needless risk.” Rikki wouldn’t let the matter drop. “You could be killed.”

Hickok paused in the act of climbing over the side. He stared into Rikki’s dark eyes. “I don’t care, pard. I just don’t care.” He pushed off.

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi knelt and watched his friend slowly lower himself to the ground in front of the drawbridge. So! What Blade and Geronimo had said about Hickok was true. With the death of the woman he loved, at the hands of the Trolls, Hickok was displaying signs of outright recklessness with regard to his personal safety. The Family’s supreme gunman seemed normal otherwise, but Blade believed Hickok was a simmering volcano waiting for the right catalyst to trigger an eruption. Rikki vividly recalled the tormented expression on Hickok’s face when they had buried the woman. Joan, her name had been, and rumor had it she was Hickok’s first true love.

Hickok reached the bare earth below the drawbridge and waved once to Rikki before jogging across the field in the direction of the cough. He knew he should present as small a target as possible to potential ambushers, but his suppressed grief negated his extensive Warrior training and he ran upright, exposed, almost hoping he would see the flash of a firearm and feel the impact of a slug ripping through his body.

The wind increased, the natural elements working in his favor. The breeze was blowing the sounds he made toward the Home, and away from whoever was lurking in the forest at the end of the field.

A sudden thought brought Hickok up short. What if it were Trolls?

Many had escaped, and they’d want revenge on the Family. Involuntarily, he gripped his revolvers, his cherished Colt Pythons.

Someone coughed again.

May the Spirit smile on me, Hickok prayed. He lowered his body, running in a half-crouch, moving cautiously now, a grim smile on his face.

Whoever was out there was due west, a bit to his right. Please let it be Trolls! He owed them. He owed them real bad.

Hickok slowed as he neared the trees, listening, his senses primed. The leaves were rustling in the wind, some of the branches creaking and rubbing against one another. Good. Perfect cover. He tensed, expecting a shot, and darted into the woods, stopping behind the first large tree he reached. Surely they had seen him coming. He leaned against the trunk, waiting.

Nothing.

What was going on here?

The coughing abruptly started up, a veritable spasm, a series of wheezing gasps and choking groans.

Sounds like the dude is sick, Hickok reasoned. He estimated the distance at fifteen to twenty yards. The brush was thick, providing ample concealment. He lowered his body to the earth and began crawling.

A twig snapped behind him.

Hickok froze. Blast his stupidity! He should have expected there would be more than one. Had they seen him?

“Did you get a fix on that?” a gruff voice whispered.

Hickok twisted, craning his neck, confident he was hidden in the tall grass.

There were three of them. Big men. Armed with rifles. Two to his left, one to his right, the nearest ten yards away.

“I know I heard it,” a second man replied in a hushed voice.

Were they talking about him? Hickok wondered.

The coughing started up again.

“There!” the first man exclaimed. All three wore green uniforms.

The three men stalked their prey, passing Hickok, intent on their target.

What the blazes was going on here? They were after the cougher. Why?

Who were they? Even in the subdued light, Hickok could see they were well dressed, their clothes appearing new and somehow different from the homemade attire the Family wore. Each man held a polished rifle and wore an automatic pistol strapped to his waist. Who are these guys?

Hickok asked himself.

Only one thing to do.

Hickok waited until they were a safe distance ahead, then pursued them, crawling through the grass and skirting any bushes or trees in his path. They were proceeding very deliberately, actually inching forward now, and he easily kept them in sight.

The poor slob with the nasty cough wheezed once more.

Hickok saw the three men quickly rush ahead, beyond his vision. He heard the commotion of a brief struggle, then a solid blow landing.

“Got you!” someone declared enthusiastically.

Hickok rose, keeping stooped over, and hastened forward until he reached a tree about six yards from a small clearing. The men were standing over another person, prone on the ground, grinning and smiling.

“You really gave us a run for our money,” the gruff voice said. “I’ve got to hand it to you.”

“Answer him,” snapped the tallest of the men, kicking the body in the side, eliciting a moan from the unfortunate victim.

“Yeah, bitch!” teased the third man. “We can’t hear you!”

Bitch? Hickok edged around the tree.

“Stand up, woman!” the gruff voice ordered. “I have some questions for you!”

Hickok’s view of the woman was blocked by the legs of the men. He heard her sob and mumble something.

“Can’t hear you, squaw,” the gruff voice stated, “and I need to know where the little one is.”

Little one? Squaw?

“If you don’t start talking,” the tallest uniform snarled, “I’m going to break your bones one by one.” He brutally kicked the woman one more time.

Enough was enough.

Hickok took two steps forward, his thumbs casually hooked in his gunbelt.

“Stand up, damn you!” the gruff voice commanded.

“Excuse me, gentlemen…” Hickok said quietly.

The three men whirled, startled, momentarily off guard.

“…I reckon it’s useless to point out how atrocious your manners are.”

Hickok grinned at them.

The uniforms overcame their initial shock, bringing their rifles into play.

“Waste him!” the gruff voice bellowed.

Hickok drew, his hands a blur, the Pythons out and leveled faster than the eye could blink, held low, near his waist, the .357’s booming and bucking, his aim unerring.

The gruff voice clutched at his face as a bullet penetrated his forehead and exploded through the back of his head.

The third uniform was caught in the right eye. He screamed while he fell, his rifle clattering beside him.

As the Family’s firearms expert and deadliest gunfighter, Hickok taught firearms use and safety to novice Warriors and the small children.

Everyone in the Family was required to become familiar with guns; their lives could depend on the knowledge. Most of them did not utilize firearms in their daily activities, so they were asked to take annual refresher courses. In a world where survival of the fittest was the cardinal rule, the Family needed to be prepared for any eventuality, including a mass assault on its Home. At the classes he conducted, Hickok stressed his fundamental law of marksmanship. “Go for the head,” he invariably told them.

“Anywhere else and they can still come at you. Get their brain and you put them completely out of commission.” He did allow several exceptions. “If you don’t have time to aim for the head and you’re not a great shot,” he had instructed one class, “if the head shot is obstructed in some way, or it’s personal, then shoot anywhere you think will be effective.” In all his years as a Warrior, Hickok could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he had not gone for the head. Most of them were for personal reasons.

Like now.

The tallest uniform had his rifle to his shoulder when the first shot splintered his left knee. He shrieked and dropped his gun, staggering when the second bullet burst his right kneecap, blood and bone spraying his leg.

His eyes focused on the blond gunman as he stumbled to the ground, silently pleading to be spared.

“You shouldn’t have kicked her, pard,” Hickok stated sternly. “I noticed you enjoy inflicting pain. How do you feel now, when the shoe is on the other foot?”

“Please…” the man begged.

“Sorry, pard,” Hickok said harshly, “but I can’t abide people who like hurting others. There’s enough anguish in this warped world as it is.”

“Please…” the tall uniform repeated.

Both Pythons blasted the man into eternity.

Hickok twirled his Colts and slid them into their respective holsters.

“Well, what have we here?” He knelt next to the woman, studying her.

She was lying on her left side, curled up, her arms held close to her chest. Her clothes were finely crafted homemade buckskins, embroidered on the back with a colorful representation of a rainbow. Luxuriant black hair descended to the small of her back. Her eyes were closed, and she was breathing heavily, almost gasping.

“You don’t sound too good, sister,” Hickok commented. He placed his right hand on her forehead.

The woman was burning up.

“Take your filthy hand off her!” someone shouted in a high, thin voice.

The patter of feet running came from behind him.

Hickok twisted, his left Python already clear, the hammer drawn back, his finger tightening on the trigger. Only his superb self-control enabled him to turn the barrel aside at the last possible instant, the shot plowing into the ground.

The young girl kept coming. An exact copy of the older woman, about ten years of age, she furiously swung her tiny fists at the gunman as she closed in, tears streaking her contorted face.

“Leave my mommy alone!” she yelled.

Hickok felt several of her blows land as he bolstered his left Colt and grabbed for her wrists.

“Why won’t you leave us alone?” the girl wailed.

Hickok was able to grip both her wrists. She fought on, a veritable wildcat, tossing and kicking him in the legs.

“Whoa there, girl! Calm down! I’m not going to hurt you or your mom.”

“Liar!” the girl disputed him. “You’re just like the others! You want to kill us!” She managed to place a particularly effective kick on his right shin.

“Ouch! Will you cut it out? Stop for just a second.”

The girl was slowing down, winded, her emotional momentum exhausted.

“That’s more like it.” Hickok slowly stood, retaining his hold on her wrists. His shin was throbbing. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he reaffirmed.

Sniffling, the girl looked up at him. “How can I trust you?” she asked weakly.

“Didn’t I just kill the men who were after your mom and you?”

She stopped crying and glanced at the dead men. “I saw you do it,” she said softly.

Hickok flinched, wishing she hadn’t. “So don’t you think it means I’m on your side?”

“Maybe,” she reluctantly admitted. “Mom says we can’t trust anyone, though.”

Hickok opted to change the subject and forestall another attack on his shins. “Your mom seems to be sick.”

The girl stared at her mother and nodded. “She is, mister. Has been for weeks. We couldn’t stop, though. She said the bad men would catch up with us.”

“If I release you,” Hickok said, “will you promise not to kick me again?”

“Okay.”

Hickok gingerly freed her hands. “I know some people who can help your mother,” he informed her.

“Where are they?” she questioned.

Hickok found himself admiring her frank and fearless attitude. “Over there.” He pointed at the Home, partially visible through the trees.

“We saw it earlier,” the girl mentioned. “Mom said we couldn’t get too close because bad people might live there.”

“Only good people live there,” Hickok assured her. “My people. We’re called the Family. Some of our people are Healers. They can help your mom.”

“You’d do that for us?” she asked incredulously.

“Of course. A pard of mine, named Joshua, says all of us are children of the Creator. That makes us all brothers and sisters. It means we’re supposed to help each other.”

“I don’t know…” she said doubtfully. “I better ask mom.” She dropped to her knees and leaned over her mother. “Mom? Mom? Can you hear me?

This man says he can help us? What do I do?”

The woman only groaned.

“Looks like your mom is in no shape to make a decision,” Hickok observed. “It’s up to you.”

“I don’t know…” The girl bit her lower lip, her brow furrowed.

“What’s your name?” Hickok asked her.

“I’m Star. Who are you?”

Hickok extended his right hand. “Folks call me Hickok.”

Star stared at his hand. “What’s that for?”

“For shaking. It’s a custom when you meet someone new.”

“We do this,” Star stated. She stood and raised her right hand, palm out. “Peace, Hickok,” she declared solemnly.

Hickok suppressed an impulse to chuckle. He followed her example.

“Peace, Star.”

“I guess I’ll have to trust you,” Star sighed. “I’ve got no other choice.”

Hickok knelt and placed his arms under the woman’s body.

“What are you doing?” Star quickly demanded.

“Relax. I’ve got to carry your mom across the field to the Home. The sooner we have the Healers examine her, the better.”

“Okay.”

The woman was light, not much over one hundred pounds. Hickok lifted her with ease. “What’s your mom’s name?”

“Rainbow,” Star answered.

“Do tell.” He moved through the brush, the girl at his side, her worried gaze fixed on her unconscious mother.

They reached the field, the bright moon overhead.

“Who’s that?” Star suddenly asked.

Hickok followed the direction of her gaze and spotted a figure coming toward them from the Home. He recognized the fluid, controlled movements of the Family’s martial arts master. “That’s a pard of mine,” he said to Star. “His name is Rikki-Tikki-Tavi.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Star replied.

“Ask him if you don’t believe me.”

The Beta Triad Warrior reached them, his scabbard gripped in his right hand. “I heard the shots,” he explained, “and presumed you needed assistance. Obviously not.”

“Say, mister.” Star looked up at Rikki. “Is your name really Rikki-Tavi-Tikki?”

“Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, at your service.” Rikki bowed and swept his left arm in a grandiose flourish.

“Where’d you get a name like that?” Star wanted to know.

“Out of a book…” Rikki began to answer.

“Oh?” Star clapped her hands, excited. “You have books here?”

“Hundreds of thousands,” Rikki responded. “The man who built our Home knew we would require knowledge to persevere in the world after World War Three. We have a magnificent library.”

“I just love books,” Star said delightedly. “We only have a couple of dozen and I’ve read all of them.”

“Who taught you to read?” Rikki asked her.

“My mother,” Star stated, reaching up and taking her mother’s limp right hand.

“Who happens to be very ill,” Hickok interjected. “We’ve got to get her to the Healers as quickly as possible.” He led the way, walking briskly in the direction of the drawbridge.

“You were telling me about your name,” Star reminded Rikki as they followed the gunman.

“I picked it from a book about an animal called a mongoose. This animal was responsible for guarding its human family from some vicious snakes. I’m a Warrior, and I’ve been trained to protect my Family, so I thought the name was highly appropriate. I selected it at my Naming, on my sixteenth birthday.” Rikki turned his head slightly, the better to attune his hearing to the gusting wind.

“Your Naming?” Star asked.

“Kurt Carpenter, the man who constructed the Home, wanted his descendants to appreciate their historical roots. We’re encouraged to scour the library books for any name we prefer. It’s bestowed on us during a special ceremony on our sixteenth birthday.”

“Do many pick a name as weird as yours?” Star inquired.

“Not many,” Rikki admitted, grinning. “You sure ask a lot of questions.

What’s your name?”

“Star.”

“How old are you?”

Star squared her shoulders and elevated her chin. “I’m a mature twelve, almost thirteen.”

Rikki chuckled.

“That’s what Rainbow, my mom, says,” Star stated stiffly.

“I believe you…” Rikki paused, turning. The breeze brought a peculiar shuffling sound to his ears.

“Is something wrong?” Star questioned him.

Rikki glanced at Hickok. The gunman was at least ten yards in front of them and making haste for the Home.

“What is it?” Star demanded, sensing his concern.

“Run and catch up with Hickok,” Rikki told her. He faced the forest and detected a large black hump moving across the background of the rustling trees.

“Why? What’s wrong?” Star stubbornly persisted.

“Do as I tell you. Now!” Rikki said harshly.

Star ran off.

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi watched the hump cross the field, directly on their trail. He would make his stand right where he was, giving Hickok and Star ample time to reach the Home and safety. What was it? he wondered. A mutate, one of the deformed, pus-covered horrors now proliferating everywhere as a result of the War? Mutates were former mammals, reptiles, or amphibians, changed into ravenous monstrosities by a mysterious, unknown process. No one, not even wise Plato, the leader of the Family, knew the cause, the agent responsible for transforming ordinary creatures into devilish demons. Were mutates the result of the radiation released during the Big Blast, as the Family referred to World War Three, or the consequence of the widespread use of chemical weaponry during the predominantly nuclear war?

The black hump was proceeding slowly. Several thin appendages were visible, periodically waving in the air.

Rikki doubted this was a mutate. Mutates craved flesh, and their appetites were insatiable. They attacked and devoured anything and everything they encountered, in a frenzy of blood lust, without hesitation.

The thing wasn’t coming fast enough.

As if in response to his thought, the hump increased its speed.

Rikki assumed the Kokutsu-tachi and patiently waited.

The lunar illumination enabled objects to be seen clearly within a distance of ten yards; beyond that, although things were still perceptible, the shadows could play tricks on you. So, despite his best efforts to pierce the darkness, Rikki-Tikki-Tavi remained ignorant of the identity of the creature until it was almost upon him.

“May the Spirit preserve us,” the Warrior involunartarily whispered, his eyes widening in disbelief, when he finally realized the nature of the threat.

The thing was a giant spider.

Rikki whipped his prized katana from its scabbard and tossed the scabbard aside, the thirty-seven-inch-long sword gleaming, the razor-sharp blade reflecting the moonlight. This katana, the only genuine samurai sword the Family possessed, was Rikki’s by virtue of his martial arts mastery. Among the hundreds of thousands of books in the Family library, volumes carefully selected by the founder of the Home, Kurt Carpenter, were dozens of books on unarmed combat and various disciplines in the martial arts, the majority of which were written by a man named Bruce Tegner. The Family Warriors spent years being instructed by one of the Elders, a former Warrior, in karate, kung fu, jujitsu, savate, and diverse other styles of martial combat. Of the twelve Warriors, one had displayed exceptional skill and outstanding ability while taking the Tegner classes, as they became known. This Warrior had later selected, from the hundreds of weapons stocked in the Family armory, an ancient katana as his principal weapon. He would relinquish it upon his death.

The spider paused seven yards away.

Rikki held his katana in both hands and raised the sword to chest height, the blade vertical, his powerful arm and shoulder muscles tensed.

He had fought mutates before, many times, but never one of the rarer giants. As with the mutates, no one knew whether it was a consequence of protracted exposure to enhanced radiation levels, or a genetic imbalance triggered by one of the chemicals employed during the Big Blast, but cases of giantism occurred regularly. Five years before, four Family hunters, out after elk, encountered a giant wasp and were nearly killed. Inexplicably, the strains of giantism only appeared in insects or their close kin.

Like arachnids.

The spider, a six-foot-tall aberration of nature, moved several feet closer.

Rikki knew he’d seen this type of spider before, at its proper size, and he noted the features, trying to place it. The thing was black, with an extended, almost spherical abdomen, and two prominent jaw-like appendages. Its spindly legs, like the bulk of the body, seemed to possess a strange shiny quality.

Abruptly, Rikki remembered.

Just one spider, to his knowledge, had a strange shininess to its color.

The black widow Spider.

The black widow suddenly came at him, its jaws quivering, its toxic venom dripping from pronounced fangs.

Rikki couldn’t repress a shudder as the thing closed in. He waited until the last possible instant and swung the katana, the blade biting deep, raking the black widow’s eyes. He darted aside, to the left, swinging again, aiming at the cephalothorax, the front section of the spider, expecting an immediate kill. Instead, the blade deflected off the rock-hard carapace, the protective covering over the cephalothorax.

The black widow, despite its size, or perhaps because of it, was slower than a widow of normal size would be. It turned after the human, the fangs working expectantly.

Rikki backed away, searching for a weakness. He knew the arachnid was divided into three basic parts: the cephalothorax, the front portion; then a tiny waist, the pedicel; and finally the extended abdomen.

Familiarity with the flora and fauna was extensively taught in the Family school. With the decline of humankind after the Big Blast, the wildlife had surged to unbelievable numbers, reclaiming the land for its own. Knowing the habits and dispositions of the varied creatures became indispensable to the Family’s continued survival.

So how could he dispatch this menace?

The katana arcing downward, Rikki jumped in close to the widow, going for one of the rear legs. The meticulously forged blade did its work this time, completely severing the leg at its joint, a putrid liquid substance spurting over the ground. Before he could try for another appendage, the black widow hurtled sideways, its massive body slamming into Rikki and sending him sprawling. The jolt of the impact dislodged the katana from his fingers, the sword sliding a foot from his outstretched arms.

The black widow kept coming, its fangs snapping at Rikki’s feet.

Rikki rolled aside, avoiding the Widow’s mouth, lunging for his katana, and missing.

The black widow pushed itself forward, actually hopping, and landed on Rikki’s legs, pinning him to the earth.

Rikki was on his right side, his frantic fingers inches from the sword.

The black widow paused.

“Can’t say much for your dancing partners, pard,” said a deep voice, and Hickok came into view, running around the spider and stopping near Rikki. His Pythons were in his hands, cocked. “Don’t move!” he ordered.

“I’ll try and lead it away.”

“Save yourself!” Rikki urged, still striving to reach his katana.

“Be serious,” Hickok grinned. “If you’re hungry, gruesome, try eating these!” he said to the spider, pulling both triggers, the barrels pointed at the row of eyes above the mouth.

The black widow lurched, recoiling in pain, and heaved itself at this new danger.

“What’s wrong?” Hickok laughed. “Lead not to your liking?” He backed away from the arachnid, intending to provide Rikki with a chance to grab his sword. “Come on, ugly!” he taunted the horror.

“Don’t stand there!” Rikki shouted, finally free of the spider’s weight.

He scooped up his katana and leaped to his feet. “Kill it!”

“No need to fret, pard,” Hickok chuckled, still backpedaling. “This is a piece of cake.”

He tripped.

“Hickok!” Rikki yelled in alarm.

The black widow was eight feet from the gunman, an implacable killing machine, undeterred by its injuries.

Hickok, flat on his back, raised his Colts and fired at the eyes, again and again, one gun after another.

The black widow staggered but didn’t stop.

“Hickok! Move!” Rikki was in motion, running to the rear of the widow, his katana held over his head. He put every muscle in his body into a downward slash, uttering his kiai as he swung, the blade cutting like a hot knife through wax, cleaving the back of the abdomen in two.

The widow reared up and spun.

“Go for the eyes!” Hickok directed while reloading his Colts.

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi obeyed, slicing his blade from one end of the row of eyes to the other.

In agony, the black widow thrashed and squirmed, one of its front legs catching Rikki in the chest and knocking him down.

“Don’t move!” someone commanded, followed by the booming of a shotgun, one shot after another, the buckshot blasting great chunks out of the spider’s face, spraying the grass with pieces of the spider’s flesh and a pungent sticky substance.

The firing finally stopped, and Rikki could detect a ringing in his ears.

He looked down at his clothes, both his tattered jeans and his faded brown shirt, and grimaced at the gunk covering his body.

The black widow was lying on the ground, its body shaking uncontrollably, its face a ruined shambles.

Hickok walked over to Rikki, his Colts trained on the quaking spider.

“Think it’s dead?” he asked uncertainly.

“Nothing could live through that barrage,” Rikki commented, rising.

“Who…?”

“Just little old me,” stated a stocky, black-haired man wearing a green shirt and pants made from an old canvas. His brown eyes twinkled as he approached, a Browning B-80 automatic shotgun cradled across his brawny chest. “I heard some shots and came running. Lucky for you I didn’t decide to have a snack on the way.”

“We were doing okay without your help,” Hickok said.

“White idiot speak with forked tongue,” the newcomer gravely intoned.

“Geronimo know better.”

“I’d like to have seen you fight this thing, using the weapons we have,” Hickok stated, peeved.

Geronimo, the only Family member with an Indian inheritance in his blood, grinned. “You went about it all the wrong way,” he said. “Anyone could see that.”

“And just how would you have killed this thing?” Hickok demanded.

“Your tomahawks wouldn’t of made a dent in it.”

Rikki chuckled. Hickok and Geronimo were the best of friends, but they never seemed to tire of razzing one another. Their continual squabbling was common knowledge and a constant source of amusement; indeed, someone had once remarked that the day they ceased teasing each other would be the day the world came to an end.

“I would have killed it the right way,” Geronimo remarked.

“Right way?” Hickok snapped, falling for the bait. “What are you babbling about?”

Geronimo made a pretense of yawning. “Everyone knows there is only one way to kill a spider.”

“How’s that, smart butt?”

“Simple.” Geronimo winked at Rikki. “You step on it.”